"Any letters for me?" he asked.
A number were handed to him which had come through the post.
"Not these," he said impatiently. "Has one come by private messenger?"
"Oh yes, I had forgotten. Here it is, sir."
He took the letter. Yes, it was addressed in Olive Castlemaine's hand-writing, and without a word he rushed straight to his bedroom. He wanted to be alone. Feverishly he turned on the electric light, and then broke the seal. The envelope contained nothing but his own unopened letter.
For some time he stood still. No sound, no movement did he make. He felt now that the last thread which held him to hope was broken, and yet he could not realise what it meant. Ever since he had left The Beeches that morning, he had lived in a kind of trance. The blow which had fallen had to an extent paralysed him. Everything seemed a long way off, even although he knew that a tragedy had taken place in his own life. Presently, however, it became real to him. Hope was gone, joy was gone, purpose was gone. The sun had gone down on his wedding-day, and it had also gone down on his life. There was no light anywhere. For years he had lived a hopeless life, for years he had been chained by a degrading habit, for years he had ceased to believe in God, in virtue—in anything that made life worth the living. Then a new force had come into his life. Hope, faith, and more than all, love had sprung up in his heart. The world had become new, and he knew what heaven meant. Then, when the day had come on which all his desires were to be fully realised, black ruin had fallen. The new-born hope and faith were destroyed in an hour. No ray of light appeared anywhere.
"Leicester, old man, may I come in?" It was Winfield who spoke.
"No—yes—that is, who are you?"
"It is I, Winfield."
"Come in."